Von Barwig arose at daybreak, for a great hope had come to him. At last life held out a promise; of what he knew not. He only knew that he experienced a sensation of joy, and his great, loving heart throbbed in response. His cheerfulness communicated itself to his friends upstairs, for they came into his room and insisted on his accompanying them to breakfast at Galazatti's. They were all in high spirits. Pinac and Fico were determined to let him see that the loss of their positions had not caused them any uneasiness.
"Bah! we get the engagement back again," laughed Fico.
Pinac snapped his fingers. "Thecafé! Pouf, pouf, pouf!"
Poons grinned amiably. He had been warned by the others, notably by Pinac in very bad German, not to let Von Barwig see that they felt down in the mouth. He kept a smile on his face when he thought of it, and was exceedingly sorrowful when he didn't; so the expression on his face altered from time to time, much to Von Barwig's astonishment. Once, during breakfast, Pinac heard Poons sigh and kicked him under the table, whereupon he immediately grinned. Von Barwig saw this lightning change and wondered what was the matter.
"Are you in pain?" he asked.
"No," replied Poons, trying to smile, but only succeeding in grinning. Then he laughed with real tears in his eyes.
"Are you laughing or crying?" asked Von Barwig. "If you are laughing, please cry; and if you are crying, for heaven's sake laugh."
Poons nodded. "I am very happy," he said tearfully, "so happy."
"Then you don't know how to show it," commented Von Barwig; whereupon they all laughed at him until he laughed too, in spite of himself. They joked all through the breakfast. So noisy were they that they attracted the attention of Galazatti, the proprietor or thecafé, who came over to the four friends and shook hands with them. He had served them for many years, and he was glad to see them enjoy themselves.
"How is the good lady of your house?" he asked.
"Miss Husted is at the top of the notch," replied Pinac, who generally constituted himself spokesman for the party. "We are all top of the notch," he added, "eh, Poonsie?" slapping the young man on the back.
"What a strange thing is this human existence!" thought Von Barwig, as he left his friends and walked back to his studio alone. "Here I am in the middle of Houston Street, giving music instructions for fifty cents per lesson, playing out nights in a dime museum, and yet my heart, my mind is with this daughter of a great millionaire. To-day at three I shall be with her, and I can think of nothing else. What is she to me that I should care so much? A chance likeness, perhaps no likeness at all except that which exists in my brain! Am I mad? Is this world of shadows real? What does it all mean? Who will tear the veil from this mystery, and tell me why one human being is so much more to us than another, why one human being so resembles another, and yet is not that one?"
From time to time he looked at the clock wishing the time would pass more quickly. He brushed his clothes very carefully that morning. The frock coat he had worn for a dozen years now proved its claim to being made of the finest texture, for it responded splendidly to the brush, and gave up most of its spots; but it still retained its shine. When he had put on a clean collar and cuffs and his best white dress shirt, Von Barwig looked at himself in the glass.
"If only this shine on my coat were transferred to my boots, what a happy transformation!" thought Von Barwig. "Still, if that button on my sleeve is transferred to my coat, it will restore the balance of harmony," so Jenny's services were called into requisition.
"Where are you going this morning?" she asked as she stitched on the button.
"To a new pupil," replied Von Barwig as carelessly as he could, though his heart fairly bumped as he spoke. He did not like to speak of his visitor of yesterday afternoon to others. It was too sacred a subject to be mentioned in Houston Street.
"The young lady that came yesterday?" inquired Jenny, but Von Barwig made no reply. Jenny looked at him closely; his silence chilled her. There was an imperceptible change in him, she thought. She could not say exactly what it was, but it seemed to her that when his eyes rested on her it was no longer with the same glance of lingering affection that he had always bestowed on her. Now he barely glanced at her, and his eyes did not rest on her for a moment. The girl's sensitive nature made her conscious that he did not think of her when he spoke to her.
"What's her name?" asked Jenny, after a long pause, during which Von Barwig put on his cape coat. Once more he did not appear to hear her, and Jenny repeated the question. "What's her name, Herr Von Barwig?" This time she spoke with directness.
"I beg your pardon," said Von Barwig, with unconscious dignity. It was the old Leipsic conductor that spoke, and there was such unbending sternness and severity in the tone of his voice, such coldness in his eye, that Jenny shrank back and looked at him as if he had struck her.
"Oh, Herr Von Barwig," she gasped, and burst into tears.
"Jenny, Jenny, my little Jenny! What is it, what did I say?" he asked in genuine distress. His thoughts had been miles away.
"I didn't mean to—to—be—rude," she sobbed. "I—I only—you looked so—so happy! I—wanted to know."
"Come, come!" he said, taking her in his arms, and patting her affectionately on the cheek. "Don't cry! I meant nothing, my child; only I did not want to speak of matters that—that you could not understand. Come, it is two o'clock, and I must go," and he kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "You are all right now, eh?" he said, as she smiled.
"Forgive me, won't you?" asked Jenny, who was now comforted. He still loved her; that was all she asked.
As he walked up Third Avenue and turned into Union Square, he went into a florist's.
"A bunch of violets, please," he said, and the young man tied up a very small quantity of violets with a very large silk tassel and a lot of green leaves, tin foil, oil paper and wire; putting the whole into a box, which he carefully tied up with more ribbon.
"What a ceremony over a few violets!" thought Von Barwig, as he laid a twenty-five cent piece on the counter.
"One dollar, please," said the young man, surveying the quarter with a somewhat pitying smile.
Von Barwig's heart sank. He had forgotten that it was winter, that flowers were expensive, that coloured cardboard and tin foil and ribbon cost money, too. He searched his pockets and found the necessary dollar, but it was within a few cents of all he had. "They are not too good for her," thought Von Barwig as he carried the box away. He walked up Broadway into Fifth Avenue, and stopped at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. The number he sought was inscribed on the door of a large brownstone mansion with a most imposing entrance, one of those palatial residences that cover the space of four ordinary houses and stamp its owner as a multi-millionaire. As he nervously pulled the bell, he upbraided himself for having dared to think that she was like his child. It was a trick of the fading light, an optical illusion. His reflection was cut short, for the door was opened by a man-servant.
"Have you a card?" inquired the footman, as Von Barwig asked for Miss Stanton.
The old man shook his head.
"Herr Von Barwig is the name; I have an appointment."
"You can wait in there; I'll see if Miss Stanton is in," said the flunky, as he turned on his heel. Such nondescript visitors were most unusual.
"An old person without a card, Mr. Joles," he confided to that individual below stairs; "name Barkwick or something, says he has an appointment. Quite genteel, but—" and he shrugged his shoulders significantly.
Joles made no reply, but went up to interview Mr. "Barkwick." The Stantons had so many applications from persons who needed charity for themselves or others that the standing order had gone forth to admit no stranger, under any pretext, unless of course he had complete credentials.
Herr Von Barwig was standing in the reception-room, hat in hand, when Joles entered.
"No card, eh? Ah—um—dear me," and Mr. Joles rubbed his chin in a perplexed way. He looked around, none of the pictures were missing, nor had the statuary been removed. But Denning shouldn't have asked the stranger into the reception-room.
Von Barwig ventured to say that he had an appointment. Mr. Joles nodded.
"Oh, you have an appointment! Written?"
"No," replied Von Barwig.
"Oh, verbal? At what hour?" questioned Mr. Joles.
"Three," answered Von Barwig.
"Are you quite sure?" inquired Mr. Joles doubtfully. "I have received no orders."
Von Barwig remained silent. What could he say? The man evidently doubted his word.
"If you will please tell her," he said gently.
"I am not at all sure that Miss Stanton is in," said Mr. Joles, and he stood there as if in doubt as to how to proceed. But any further question as to Miss Stanton's being in or out was settled by the young lady herself, who dashed into the room in evident haste.
"I beg your pardon, Herr Von Barwig; I forgot to leave word that you were coming! Forgive me, won't you?" and she held out her hand to him in such a friendly manner that it drew from the servant a faint apology.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he began.
"It's all right, Joles," said Miss Stanton, cutting him rather short. She evidently did not value that gentleman's explanations very highly, and took it for granted that Herr Von Barwig didn't care to hear them. Joles bowed and left the room.
"Well! I'm right glad to see you. It's a long way up town, isn't it?"
Von Barwig nodded. He could not speak; he could only look at her.
"For me?" she asked as he held out the box of violets. "Oh, how kind, how thoughtful!" she murmured, as he bowed in response to her question. She opened the box. "Violets in winter are a luxury, you know!"
Von Barwig smiled with pleasure; he was almost too happy.
"I congratulate myself on having pleased you," he managed to say.
"Now do sit down and talk to me!" she said, placing a chair for him and almost pushing him into it. He looked rather perplexed.
"I thought," he began.
"You surely didn't expect me to take a lesson to-day, did you?" she said, and then she went on: "Oh dear me, no; not to-day! To-morrow. Besides, my music room is upstairs; this is not my part of the house at all. How about the little boy? When does he begin? Do you think he has talent?"
Von Barwig looked bewildered. He had not only forgotten the appointment he had made with the boy to hear him play, but he had forgotten his very existence.
"I—it is not settled," he faltered. "To-morrow perhaps. Yes, to-morrow, he will call and then I will let you know."
"Oh, I thought you were to hear him to-day! I was rather anxious to know what you thought."
Von Barwig felt quite guilty.
"Do you know I've been thinking of you quite a great deal," she said.
"You are too kind," he replied in a low voice.
Miss Stanton was evidently in a very communicative frame of mind, for from that moment she talked rapidly on current musical topics. She knew the latest operas, and loved the spirit of unrest, the unsettled minor chords of the new school of music; preferred theleit motifto thearia, music drama to opera, and was altogether exceedingly modern in her tastes. She did not like recitative in music, and preferred Wagner and Tschaikowsky to Bach and Verdi. She loved to be stirred up, she said. She liked Beethoven, yes, but he was too mathematical. As for Handel, he was uninteresting in the extreme; and so she went on and on.
The old man could only gaze at her in silence. There she sat, the living image of his dead wife, talking musical matters in a foreign tongue; an absolute stranger to him, and yet he felt drawn toward her in a strange and unusual way. Who was she? What was she? Had the dead come to life? What had happened? He could only look at her, and feel so very, very happy. What did it all mean?
"How is your father?" he asked when there was a lull in the conversation, brought about by Miss Stanton's pausing to breathe.
Her face fell. "He is in Europe," she said, and did not continue the subject.
Von Barwig noticed that her face saddened when she spoke of her father's absence.
"She must love him very much," he thought, and the thought brought him to his senses.
"Don't be a fool, Barwig," he said to himself. "Her father is a multi-millionaire, one of the great men of the country. Her mother is dead, and you must content yourself with having dreamed that she was yours. You must not look at her, you understand? Don't look at her, or she will suspect what you think and you will be turned away. You have had your dream. Now wake up, wake up!"
It was time for him to awaken, for she was asking him if he thought that musical genius was allied to madness.
"I—I don't know," he replied. "I am not a genius!"
"Will you play for me?" he said, to hide his confusion.
"Not now," she replied. "I have an engagement. Come to-morrow at this hour. I'll leave word this time," she added with a smile. "Mr. Stanton is so particular about callers that no one can get near me without being personally guaranteed by Joles or Mr. Ditson."
"You haven't seen Mr. Ditson, have you? He is father's secretary. I don't like him, and I'm so sorry. I can't bear not to like any one," and she sighed.
Von Barwig was looking at her again; in spite of himself he could not keep his eyes from her.
"Of what were you thinking when you looked at me in that way?" she asked, with a curious smile.
"I—I—don't know," said Von Barwig, rather startled, and this was literally true.
"You're thinking that I am a great rattle-box, aren't you? Now, confess! I am talking a great deal, am I not? But I can't seem to help it! I'm not always like this; indeed I'm not," she said earnestly. "It's a positive luxury to utter the first thought that comes into one's mind—a luxury I seldom get, I can tell you! Somehow or other you drew me out, and I allowed myself to ramble on and on without in the least knowing why. Can you explain it?" she asked laughingly.
He shook his head. "Perhaps you feel that I am interested in you, if you will pardon the liberty I take in saying so."
"Very likely," she said thoughtfully. There was a long pause, for they were so occupied with their own thoughts that neither spoke. The reaction had set in, and she was now strangely quiet; indeed she hardly spoke again that afternoon. After a while Von Barwig rose to take his leave.
"Have I offended her?" he asked himself, as he left the house. "How dare I tell her that I am interested in her! What impertinence, what a liberty! Who am I that I should dare to say such a thing! You old fool!" he now addressed himself directly. "You have happiness well within your grasp, and instead of gently taking it to yourself you grab it with both hands and pluck it up by the roots. You have offended her and she won't see you again. You'll see, you won't be admitted to the house!" The old man almost cried as he thought of his temerity, his folly, his stupidity. He walked faster and faster in his excitement. "I must curb my unfortunate tongue; I must, I will, if I ever get another chance!" He sighed deeply. "And yet—why should she press my hand and ask me to come to-morrow and be sure not to forget the hour? She has forgiven me, yes, yes, she likes me; I know she does, but I must be careful!" And so he walked rapidly home to his lodgings, alternately in a heaven of joy or in a hell of despair.
"What a strange old man," mused Hélène, as she sat in a box that night at the Academy of Music and listened to an aria from "William Tell." "Why do I think of him so constantly?"
"My dear Hélène, you are not a very attentive hostess," said Charlotte Wendall, a tall brunette. It was after the curtain had fallen on the act, and the box was filled up with visitors. There was always a crowd in the Stanton box on the grand tier when Hélène Stanton was present.
"My cousin Beverly has spoken to you twice, and you have not even intimated that you are aware of his presence."
Charlotte Wendall, as a classmate of Hélène's at Vassar, took a school friend's privilege of saying just what she thought. Besides, Hélène was fond of her, and permitted her to say what she pleased.
"Won't you speak to me?" pleaded Beverly. "I do so want to be noticed! I'll be satisfied with a glance in my direction."
Beverly Cruger had recently finished a post-graduate course at Harvard and was just budding into the diplomatic service. He was a fine manly looking chap of twenty-seven, and as he looked down into Hélène Stanton's face, his pleading eyes attested to the fact that he was more than merely interested in her.
"I beg your pardon," said Hélène, shaking hands with him warmly.
"Hélène is very pensive to-night. I can't make her out," interposed Octavie, a pretty little blonde sprite, and a perfect antithesis to her sister Charlotte. "She is thinking of some one who is not here."
"Quite true," nodded Hélène, smiling.
"Happy fellow," murmured Beverly.
"On the contrary," said Hélène, who had sharp ears. "The fellow I am thinking about is very unhappy."
"Ah, one of those sad affairs, with languishing eyes, who simpers and sighs!" said Charlotte laughingly, bursting into what she called poetry.
Hélène smiled a little. "You'd never guess," she said thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, "I am thinking of a musician, a music master who lives downtown in one of the little side streets of our crowded city. He is an artist and a gentleman, who has in all probability devoted the best years of his life to his music; and he has made a failure of it."
"Did he tell you his story?" asked Beverly, slightly interested.
Hélène shook her head. "He told me he was a great success, a flourishing artist, a rich man (in her enthusiasm Hélène exaggerated slightly), and not three minutes afterward the very piano on which he made his living was taken away from him because he had not sufficient money to pay for its hire. It was the most pitiful thing I ever saw; I simply can't forget it!"
"Poor chap! Can't we do anything for him?" asked Beverly, now thoroughly interested.
"He is very proud. I took one of our mission boys there, a lad who has great talent for music, and this strange individual refused to take any compensation for teaching him. He insisted on taking him for nothing, and said he loved children."
"I should say he was a strange individual," commented Beverly. "He ought to feel highly flattered at the interest you are taking in him."
"You want to look out for thesedistinguéforeigners, Hélène! You're an heiress, you know," said Octavie, who was an omnivorous newspaper reader.
"Yes," said Hélène, and then she was silent. Beverly Cruger looked at her. Her face, usually happy and smiling, was sad and thoughtful.
"This stranger has made quite an impression on her," he thought. "What is his name?" he asked, a strange sense of annoyance creeping over him in spite of himself.
"Herr Von Barwig," replied Hélène.
"Oh, a nobleman," broke in the irrepressible Octavie, who read novels as well as the newspapers; "a German nobleman! It is a romance, isn't it? Is he a count, or a baron; or a—prince, perhaps?"
"He didn't tell me," replied Hélène, who could not help smiling at the curiosity she had aroused. They were all looking at her very anxiously now, even Mrs. Van Arsdale, the girls' chaperone, was interested.
"He didn't tell me," repeated Hélène; "really he didn't."
"Oh, well, he will!" said Beverly, forcing a smile. He did not like to admit to himself that he was not exactly enjoying Hélène's romance.
"I am going to see him to-morrow, and I'll make it a point to ask him," said Hélène, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She rather enjoyed Beverly's obvious consternation.
"To-morrow? You see him to-morrow?" asked Beverly, and his heart sank. The lights were lowered and the next act had begun before she could make any reply, and then it was too late. He had known her only a few months, but in that brief time he had seen a great deal of her. He loved her; of that he was quite sure. It was her immense wealth that prevented him from asking her to be his wife. But for that he would have spoken a score of times.
"Where were you?" asked his mother as he returned to his seat beside her in the stall.
"In box 39," he replied.
"Mr. Stanton's box?" she asked.
"Yes," said Beverly. "I wanted to see Charlotte and Octavie."
"And Miss Stanton?" added his mother. Beverly made no reply.
"You were at her house yesterday," said Mrs. Cruger.
"Yes."
"Beverly, you must be careful! Your father objects to Miss Stanton."
"Objects to her friendship for my cousins?"
"No, to your friendship for her," replied his mother. "You have already shown her marked attention. She is a very beautiful girl, and he is afraid that the intimacy may ripen into something more than mere friendship."
Beverly was unusually silent during the progress of the opera, and when they arrived home he went straight to his father's study.
Andrew Cruger occupied a position of leadership in New York society that practically made his position unassailable. He was not a rich man, but he was the most highly respected diplomat in America; a scholarly gentleman, the friend of kings and presidents. He had been of the greatest possible assistance to the secretaries of state of both parties in solving international problems. The respect of the entire world was his and he was far more solicitous about his good name than about his financial [Transcriber's note: A line of the book appears to be missing here, but the sentence probably ends with "affairs", "business", or something similar.]
"What is your objection to Miss Stanton, father?" demanded Beverly in a somewhat excited manner.
"I have no objection to her, my boy," replied his father. Then, seeing that his son was terribly in earnest, he said in a more serious tone, "There is some question as to her father's social integrity."
"What has that to do with Miss Stanton?" asked Beverly.
"Nothing, my boy. And may I ask, what has the entire question to do with us?"
"I love her, father. I want to make her my wife."
Andrew Cruger put down the pen with which he was writing and looked at his son.
"That's very serious," he said, and walking over to the fireplace he leaned against the mantelpiece. "You are slated by the incoming administration for one of the under secretaryships of the German Legation. You are on the threshold of a great career. A marriage with Henry Stanton's daughter would not affect you at this stage, but when you rise to the dignity of ambassadorial honour, as in the course of events you logically will, your wife, my lad, must be beyond the breath of calumny. No scandal, no mystery must attach itself to her name."
"What's there against Miss Stanton, father? Won't you tell me?" asked Beverly.
"Nothing againsther! Henry Stanton's early life is shrouded in mystery. He inherited his immense fortune from his uncle. Who her mother was, no one seems to know, and there lies the mystery. Mr. Stanton's immense works of charity have succeeded to some extent in getting him a foothold in New York, but the foundation of his social position is very insecure. I need scarcely tell you, Beverly, that although money is a lever that can do much to help a man along in society, it is almost utterly valueless in the diplomatic world. In that smallest of small worlds one's name, one's record, one's wife, one's family must be almost immaculate, subject to the most minute scrutiny. You are in the diplomatic world; your name will pass muster. But what of the woman you propose to make your wife?"
Beverly was silent. He had hitherto heard nothing against Henry Stanton, much less against his daughter.
"It will make no difference to me," he said firmly. "I love her, and, father, in saying this I mean no disrespect to your authority, but, if she will accept me, I intend to marry her."
Andrew Cruger made no answer. He merely lowered his head and looked at his son.
"When?" he asked briefly.
"I have not spoken to her yet," said Beverly.
Old Cruger looked at him quizzically.
"Perhaps I've been a little premature," suggested Beverly. The elder Cruger shrugged his shoulders. "That is the chief characteristic of American youth," he said, with a slight smile.
"I should never think of settling the question of dates, or of doing anything final until I had consulted you and my mother. Nor would I speak to her without first asking your consent," he added, to please his father.
Andrew Cruger smiled once more. "Suppose I refuse my consent?" he asked.
"Well," Beverly hesitated.
"You'll marry her without it? Of course you will! That's if she'll have you, my boy. The authority of parents is only nominal; therefore I content myself with warning you that you may ruin your career by such a marriage."
"I'll risk it," said Beverly.
"In other words you will give up your career?"
"Yes," replied Beverly.
"Quite so," agreed old Cruger. "But if you are too willing to take the risk, too indifferent as to your future, the world, our world, which after all is the only world, may say that your wife's fortune made it unnecessary for you to bother about a career or even about having to earn your own living."
Beverly looked indignant.
"You know the world, particularly our section of it, has rather an unpleasant way of putting things. I should not like to have a son of mine accused of such motives even though I knew it to be untrue."
Beverly was silent. He dimly saw that his father was right.
"Think it over," suggested old Cruger.
"Have I your consent?" asked Beverly.
"Don't put me in the position of being compelled to say, 'Bless you, my child,' after I have damned you for disobedience," said the elder Cruger laughingly. "Be quite sure, my boy, that I shall adapt myself to conditions. If I say 'yes,' it is because I know you will do as you please in any event, and I don't want to cloud your happiness by interposing useless objections. I merely warn you! Good-night, Beverly."
"Good-night, father." Beverly left the room and the elder Cruger returned to his work.
It was about five minutes before three the next afternoon when Anton Von Barwig's card was brought up to Hélène's room by Joles. Herr Von Barwig had evidently taken the precaution to have his name printed on a piece of pasteboard, so as not to offend Joles's delicate sense of propriety.
"Will you see him, miss?" asked the man-servant; glancing at the cardboard somewhat suspiciously.
"Ask him up at once, please," said Miss Stanton, in such a decided tone that Joles hastened to obey her orders.
Hélène was perplexed; she had been thinking all the morning of the false position she found herself in. She had told the old music master that she could not play at all, or could only play a little, and that she wanted to take piano lessons. At the very outset he would discover that she was quite a good amateur pianoforte player, with a fine musical ear, and then he would see through her ruse and refuse to teach her. She felt that he would see her pretences were only for the purpose of getting him to give her lessons and she was afraid that he would be very much offended.
"After all, what does it matter?" she asked herself; and the answer came quickly, "It does matter." The more she thought of this the more perplexed she became. Why should she care one way or the other? Who was this man that she should consider his feelings toward her? The whole thing was ridiculous! Yet Von Barwig made an irresistible appeal to her, and she felt that she must rest contented with the fact as it was, without seeking to know how or why. One point, however, stood out very clearly: Beverly Cruger had been obviously jealous last night at the opera. Octavie's silly prattle about a young and handsome foreign nobleman had had a marked effect upon him, and Hélène's heart beat slightly faster as she pondered over this phase of the matter.
"He's actually jealous," she thought, and she enjoyed the idea. Beverly's earnest manliness made her admire him greatly. It almost reconciled her to Octavie's silliness! He was so different from the swarm of social bees who sipped only the sweets of pleasure. He was a worker, a sincere worker, and his promised appointment to the diplomatic service, notwithstanding his youth, attested the fact that he was unusual. "He takes an interest in his country's welfare," thought Hélène, "and does not ignore it as does the world in which he lives and moves. He is a patriot; he loves his country. He is unselfish, too. A good-looking society man who is unselfish, what an anomaly!" Hélène felt rather grateful to the innocent cause of Beverly Cruger's jealousy, and when he entered the room she greeted him with a beaming smile.
"I am so pleased to see you," she said unaffectedly.
Von Barwig had a little paper parcel in his hand. He carefully removed the paper, putting it in his pocket, and then held out a very tiny bunch of violets.
"You are spoiling me," declared Hélène, as she took them from him. She had a large bouquet of orchids in her corsage, which she quickly removed, and placed the violets there instead.
"I think violets are far prettier than orchids," she said.
Von Barwig looked rather dubious. He was pleased, but he doubted.
"Do sit down!" she said, and he went toward the piano. "Not at the piano; here," said Hélène, seating him beside her. "Now, listen to me, sir! You must not bring me expensive flowers every time you call."
"They are not expensive," said Von Barwig with a smile. "It is the box and the ribbon that costs. You may have observed that I avoided them on this occasion."
"Well, what shall we talk about?" asked Hélène, after a pause.
"Talk about?" repeated Von Barwig, slightly perplexed. "Our music lesson!"
"Oh, I don't feel like taking a lesson to-day," said Hélène. "I want to talk."
"Yes, but I—it is I who must talk, if I am to teach," faltered Von Barwig in a low voice. He didn't want to go too far, for he had heard that American heiresses were capricious and whimsical and that they took likes and dislikes very suddenly. He did not want her to dislike him, so he would humour her; but he also wanted to teach her.
"You know," she said confidentially, "I think I have a rather discontented nature. Certain people have a horrible effect on me. I want to run about, play, sing, read, quarrel, do anything rather than talk to them. But you, how I like to talk to you! You have a sort of a—what shall I call it—an all-pervading calmness, that communicates itself to me, and soothes my ruffled feelings. I don't seem to feel in a hurry when you're here. And when you smile, as you're smiling now, I don't know why, but I feel just happy, and contented with myself. Do you understand what I mean?" The girl had a far-away expression in her eyes, as if she were day-dreaming. The old man regarded her with a smile.
"You are trying to put me at my ease," he said finally, "and you have succeeded, but we make no progress at our music."
"What music have you brought?" she asked.
"I cannot tell what books you will need until I hear you," he replied.
"You'd better get me Bach's studies," she said carelessly.
"Won't you play?" he asked, "and then I can judge."
"Not now," replied Hélène, and then she went on again, telling him of herself, her life, her aims and ambitions, her predilections and prejudices. She seldom referred to her father, and mentioned her mother only occasionally. "How I do ramble on, don't I? I seem to have known you for years."
"You are very happy, are you not?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" she replied. There seemed to be a tinge of sadness in her manner, a sort of mental reservation as to her happiness that she did not like to confess even to herself. "Yes, IthinkI am," she said finally.
"Why not?" he answered. "Here all is peaceful, beautiful and harmonious. What surroundings you have!" and he looked around, "beautiful art objects to look at, the beautiful park at your very window. Here all is beauty, joy, peace, without and within. Your architect was a fine artist, or is it your own taste—all this?"
Hélène nodded. "I designed this part of the house myself," she replied. "The tapestry and pictures and statuary of course add greatly to its general appearance, but you are quite right—the architect was an artist."
"He must have been," commented Von Barwig, looking about approvingly.
Anton learns that his newly found daughter is to be married.Anton learns that his newly found daughter is to be married.
Anton learns that his newly found daughter is to be married.Anton learns that his newly found daughter is to be married.
"Are you looking at that cabinet, the one with the dolls in it? That's a sixteenth century piece; it belonged to Maria Theresa. Father brought it from Paris himself. It's beautiful, isn't it? I keep all my dolls in it, and some day I'll show them to you. I have a great collection; but I don't suppose you take much interest in dolls," said Hélène.
"Your father—he must be a fine man," said Von Barwig with a sigh. "I have heard so much of his goodness to the poor, his charity, his interest in church matters——"
"Yes, he is very good," said Hélène, without any enthusiasm in her voice. "There is not a hospital or a church or an asylum that doesn't number him among its patrons. Yes, he is really a very good man I suppose," repeated Hélène as if she were trying to assure herself of his goodness. "He lays more corner stones and endows more orphanages than any man in America. He makes beautiful speeches; no public dinner seems to be complete without him. He knows just what to say and how to say it, and what is better than all, he knows when not to say anything!"
Von Barwig nodded. "It's a great gift, that of speech," he said. "I despair of ever being able to speak this language with fluency."
"But you speak English splendidly," said Hélène.
"My accent is terrible," said Von Barwig. "Can you not hear it?"
"Your accent is beautiful to me, a rich German aristocratic roundness of expression, with nothing in the least harsh or grating to the ear. I just love to hear you talk!" declared Hélène.
"Really?" asked Von Barwig in surprise.
"Really!" responded Hélène with positive emphasis.
"Ah, you spoil me, young lady; you spoil me! But come, just a few bars on the piano, that I may see where my young pupil stands."
Hélène looked at him and laughed mischievously.
"Very well," she said, rising with evident reluctance. "I will play you 'The Maiden's Prayer'——"
"Hum," said Von Barwig dubiously. "She has prayed so many times this poor maiden; it is time she should be answered. However, it is for you to decide!"
Hélène seated herself at the piano and played that well-known and sorely tried air through as badly as she possibly could. When she had finished she placed her elbows on the keyboard and said: "How do you like this maiden's prayer?"
Von Barwig looked at her critically. "You can do better than that," he said.
"How do you know?" she asked quickly.
"Because, at some points you added notes of your own. You increased the bass, greatly improving the original harmony of the composition," replied Von Barwig. "You have talent," he added. "Badly as you play, badly as you execute, your talent stands out. No one can add to the composer's work without having musical ideas of his own."
"He has found me out already," thought Hélène. Then she mechanically picked a tune on the piano with one finger.
Von Barwig's trained musical ear caught the melody in a moment.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked quickly.
"At your house," she answered, "the night I brought Danny to you. I have a very keen ear for music," she added.
"You gave me quite a start," he said. "It is my symphony, my dead and buried work. To hear that music from you was startling." There was a pause. "Do you know the bass part?" he asked.
She closed the piano quickly with a bang. "What do you think of Danny?" she asked, ignoring his question.
"What a curious girl!" thought Von Barwig, and then he said aloud, "The boy has possibilities, and so have you," he added.
Hélène laughed. "It's a shame to deceive him," she thought.
"Herr Von Barwig," she began, "I want to be serious a moment. I'm afraid I've been guilty of a little—what shall I call it? Indiscretion? No, deception; that's better. I have deceived you—" She paused; the look of deep consternation on Von Barwig's face arrested her. "What's the matter?" she asked.
The old man gazed at her. "I don't know," he said, swallowing a lump in his throat "The fear that something had happened to prevent the—continuation—of—I am so happy here—I—" He apparently was unable to explain his meaning, for he stopped short.
"Go on," she said.
Von Barwig shook his head. "You look so serious," he said after a pause. "I thought perhaps something had happened to prevent my coming here, and the thought made me very unhappy. I am a foolish old man, eh? But, I am so happy here, so happy! I try to explain," he said. "Everything I have had in this world, everything I love I have lost! I am afraid to love anything for fear that I shall lose it. That's superstition, is it not? You tell me you have deceived me, and immediately I think she is going to tell me that she will no longer deceive me, that she does not like me for a music master! I know," he added plaintively, "that I am foolish. But my life here since I have been in this country has made of me a coward. Forgive me; please forgive me!"
The girl's eyes filled with tears. "No, no!" she said gently. "You need not fear. I shall never want any other music master but you, never!"
Pinac and Fico noticed it and so did Miss Husted. Poons probably would have noticed it, too, if he had not been in love. But Jenny was the only one who really felt the change in Professor Von Barwig. Try as he would, the old man could not conceal from them the fact that "something had happened." Not that he was not just as affable to Miss Husted as ever, not that he was any less warm in his manner toward his friends, but there was something missing and Jenny was the only one who came anywhere near guessing the truth. "He has found some one whom he loves more than us," thought she, and she felt glad at heart for his sake; though she did not understand.
"He feels so bad with himself that we have lost our engagement through him that he cannot come over it," said Fico in answer to Pinac's query as to what was the matter with Von Barwig. They knew there was no chance now of their getting the symphony engagement, for Van Praag, hampered by creditors, unable to carry out his contracts owing to the strike, had gone into bankruptcy and retired from the venture with the loss of all his money. He wrote a letter to Von Barwig saying he was going back to Germany, where musical art was one thing and bricks another. Von Barwig sadly showed them the letter, but his mind was so taken up with his new pupil that he did not feel the loss of the engagement as they did.
And yet his financial position was daily growing worse and worse, for he had practically no pupils at all—that is, no paying pupils. Besides this, the weather was so cold and business had dropped off to such an extent at the Museum that Costello had been compelled to reduce Von Barwig's salary fifty per cent. "A half a loaf is better than none," he had told the night professor as he handed him his envelope with half salary in it; so Von Barwig had been compelled to take what he could get. He now seriously considered moving upstairs.
"We haven't a room vacant," said Miss Husted in a decided tone; "and if we had," tenderly, "no, professor, no top floor for you! I couldn't bear the idea of it; I couldn't really! Pay me when you get it," she said when the old man pleaded that he must live within his means.
"But I may never get it," expostulated the professor.
"Oh, yes, you will," confidently replied Miss Husted. "Mrs. Mangenborn says it is in the cards that great fortune is coming to you."
"In the next world, perhaps," said Von Barwig, laughing in spite of himself.
"Besides," went on Miss Husted, "it doesn't matter one way or the other. I could never bear the idea. Stay here for my sake," she pleaded when she saw that the professor was obstinate; and so he remained in his old rooms, though he squeezed every penny in order to pay her.
On the afternoon following his interview with his father, Beverly Cruger made up his mind to speak to Hélène, to ask her to be his wife. He called at her home, and was informed by Joles that she was engaged; that a German gentleman was giving her music instruction, and that her orders were that she was not to be disturbed. Beverly left his card, intending to call the next day, but the fates were against him, and he was sent for by the State Department in regard to his diplomatic position and had to go to Washington. On his return to New York a week later, he again called on Miss Stanton. To his astonishment and, it must be confessed, to his extreme annoyance, he found Miss Stanton again "engaged." Herr Von Barwig, her music master, was there. "Please take up my card, Joles, and tell Miss Stanton that I wish to see her on a matter of the utmost importance—the utmost importance," repeated Beverly.
"Yes, sir," replied Joles.
"Herr Von Barwig appears to bepersona gratissima," thought Beverly, and then it occurred to him that it was very strange that an accomplished musician like Hélène Stanton should take music lessons. "He must be a very superior sort of a musical personage, very superior indeed." Beverly would not acknowledge even to himself that he resented Herr Von Barwig's presence at the Stantons'. "How can our American women be so deceived by the artificial deference, the insincere, highly polished politeness of these foreigners!" he mused. "Von Barwig is probably an offshoot of some noble German house, but she's not apt to be attracted by an empty title!" He had loved her for months, he told himself, and each time he had made up his mind to speak this foreigner had been the means of preventing him.
"Send him up please, Joles. I want you to meet Mr. Cruger, Herr Von Barwig," said Hélène as she glanced at the card Joles handed her, and rose from the piano where she was taking a lesson. "I haven't seen him for days and days; I wondered what had become of him."
Von Barwig noticed the heightened colour in Miss Stanton's cheeks and he made a mental note that he must like Mr. Beverly Cruger, too, yet, if the truth must be known, he felt a pang of regret. "She loves him," he said to himself, "she will forget me."
"Shall we not continue the lesson?" he said aloud.
Hélène shook her head. "No more to-day," she said.
"Then Miss Stanton will perhaps pardon my leaving," said Von Barwig.
"On the contrary, Herr Professor, Miss Stanton insists on your remaining," said Hélène, motioning him to a seat. Von Barwig bowed deferentially.
"You have disappointed me to-day," he said. "Ach, your tempos change—like the winds! At one moment it is 6-8, the next 2-4, and almost in the same measure, you play 4-4. At one moment you play with your thumbs, like a little girl; at another, you play like a professional, an artist. I cannot understand it. Technically I don't know where you are. I am puzzled! I admit it; I am puzzled," and he looked at her in perplexed uncertainty.
Hélène's only answer was a ripple of laughter. She was beginning to enjoy her own cleverness in deceiving him, and his confusion endeared him to her more than ever. The greater his perplexity the more she sympathised with him.
"Poor old gentleman," she thought, "It is downright wicked of me to deceive him. But what can I do? If I let him know I don't need his services he will not come."
"I have made up my mind to bring you some simple exercises for our next lesson, Miss Stanton. No more Bach and unevenly played Beethoven!" said Von Barwig. "It is necessary that we begin at the beginning and work up. That's it! We begin all over again, at the very beginning, and work up to the top. Then you will have some style, some form, some technique that you can call your own."
"Oh, dear, you're not going to make me play exercises, are you? Oh, Herr Von Barwig, dear Herr Von Barwig, please don't!" said Hélène, with such a pleading accent that Von Barwig was compelled to smile.
"It just serves me right," she thought. "I shall literally have to face the music," she said to herself with a laugh.
Beverly Cruger heard that laugh as he came into the room, and he made up his mind that Herr Von Barwig was one of those highly entertaining foreigners who appeal to the feminine mind with their superficial brilliancy and capture all before them.
"Herr Von Barwig, this is Mr. Beverly Cruger," broke in Hélène, and Mr. Cruger was formally introduced to his rival.
Beverly could hardly repress a smile as his eyes fell on the slim figure of the poor, grey-headed, homely old artist. Was this the noble young foreigner, the handsome German music master he had pictured to himself? Was this Hélène's romance?
"Gott in Himmel, what a squeeze he gives the hand!" thought Von Barwig, as he tried to release his injured digits from the vice that held them.
"I am so glad to see you, Herr Von Barwig," said Beverly; and he meant it.
"Yes, and I, too," groaned Von Barwig as he rubbed his fingers. "A fine fellow," he thought. "Such a welcome as that must come from the heart. But ach Gott, what a muscle! It's like iron!"
Hélène was surprised. Beverly Cruger was far and away the most undemonstrative man of her acquaintance, and his cordial greeting of her old music master went straight to her heart. "He likes him because—perhaps, because I do," she thought.
"Do you know you remind me very much of a splendid bust of Beethoven I saw in the British Museum? Upon my word you do!"
Von Barwig bowed.
"Oh, I think Mozart rather than Beethoven," suggested Hélène. "He's not stern enough for Beethoven."
Again Von Barwig bowed.
Beverly Cruger shook his head. "Beethoven," he said, looking at Von Barwig critically. "Still—well—I'm not sure, perhaps——"
"Mozart," insisted Hélène.
"Are you sure you don't mean Liszt? We really do look alike!" Von Barwig said, with a twinkle in his eye. Then he added, "Ah, you are very kind to me, very kind! Dear me, I am afraid you spoil me. Those are the giants, the leaders of a great art. I am the most humble of all its followers. Even to resemble them is in itself a great honour."
Hélène could never quite clearly remember how or when Von Barwig took his leave that memorable afternoon, but when he came on the following day to give his lesson she held both his hands in hers.
"You shall be the first one to hear the news," she said almost in a whisper. "I'm so happy, so very, very happy!" He looked at her, and understood.
"Herr Cruger?" he asked. She nodded affirmatively.
"How did you know?"
"Ah! He is an excellent young man; I approve very highly of him." Then he was afraid of his own temerity. "What right had he to approve? He must curb his tongue," he thought. "I beg your pardon! I mean he is a most excellent gentleman."
Hélène hardly heard him, for her thoughts were far away at that moment. "I wonder what father will say?" she said.
Von Barwig started. The word father sounded strange, as if a discord had been struck in the midst of a beautiful harmony. "Why should I feel like that?" he asked himself. "Barwig, you are a fool, a madman! Mr. Stanton is her father; I must love him, too. My heart must not beat every time I hear his name. Come! Let us go to work; our studies—" he said aloud, tapping the book. "We must go to work. I have brought with me the book of exercises."
"No! no study to-day. But please don't go—just yet," she added as Von Barwig prepared to take his departure. "Sit down! I am going to be very angry with you."
"Angry with me?" the old man smiled. He knew it was only the girl's way of finding some little trivial fault with him. "Angry with me," he repeated. "And you said you were so very, very happy."
"Yes, I forgot when you came in that I ought to be very angry with you."
"Ah, you ought to be, but you are not! No, surely not," said Von Barwig gently.
"Why did you send me back my cheque? This one! Don't look so innocent; you know what I mean, sir!" and Hélène held up the cheque that Von Barwig had found awaiting him at his room the night before, and that he had carefully mailed back to her.
Von Barwig looked pained.
"Herr Von Barwig, let us have a little understanding!" said Hélène in a far more serious tone than she usually took with her music master.
"Ah, don't be angry, please don't be angry to-day! Not on such a day as this!" he urged. "To-morrow you may scold me if you like; but to-day, no, please, no!" and he looked at her so pleadingly that Hélène was forced to smile. "I wish nothing to happen that shall interfere with the happiness that has come to you," he added.
But Hélène was insistent. "It has been on my mind some time to ask you why you take such an interest in me," she said, "and now this," and she looked at the cheque.
Von Barwig was silent. What could he say? He dared not tell her the real reason.
"When I came to your studio with the little boy and asked you to teach him, you refused to accept money. Your reasons were that you were devoted to your art and that you loved to help the children of the poor. Surely I don't come underthatclassification, Herr Von Barwig?"
"Oh, no, no!" faltered poor Von Barwig.
"Then why do you refuse to take my money? Heaven only knows you've worked hard enough for it! Your efforts to instill your ideas into my head deserve far greater recognition than mere money payment."
"No, no! I have not worked. It has been so great a pleasure. No, decidedly there has been no work! I do not feel myself entitled to take, until you show some progress." Von Barwig felt himself on terra firma again.
"All that is begging the question, my dear Maestro! Whether your work affords you pleasure or no, it is still your work. Teaching is your means of livelihood, is it not?"
"Not altogether; I play at—" and then he thought of the Dime Museum and was silent. He looked at her; she was regarding him quite seriously, and he was afraid he had offended her. There was a pause during which he tried to think out a course of action calculated to offset his mistake. Hélène broke the silence.
"You left your own country, where I understand you were well known and successful, and you came over here, where, pardon my saying so, you are not known and where you—" Hélène hesitated slightly, "where you are not so prosperous. When I bring you a pupil you refuse to take money for his tuition. When I take lessons from you myself, you refuse to take money from me. Now, my dear Herr Von Barwig, I confess that I cannot understand! You must explain." There was a dead silence. "What does it mean?" demanded Hélène. Von Barwig looked at her helplessly. He had no explanation, or, rather, he realised that the one he had was insufficient.
"Why do you take so much interest in me?" she asked.
"At first for a likeness, a likeness to some one I knew," replied Von Barwig, in a low voice. "You resemble a memory I have known, a memory that gives me so much happiness. She is gone, and now you—pardon the liberty—you take her place. I take interest because it was she—and it is now—you—you—a fresh young girl that will never grow old! You have taken the place of—of—" Von Barwig could not go on. He knew what he meant, but he could not express it.
"As I said before, Herr Von Barwig," and Hélène spoke now with less show of wounded dignity, "I do not understand. It is simply incomprehensible, but it amounts to this—you must not refuse this cheque. If you do, I—I shall be compelled to—to refuse to go on with my lessons," and Hélène held out the cheque toward him. Von Barwig looked at her; his sweet melancholy smile deepened as he slowly shook his head.
"If you knew, if you knew, Miss Hélène, how I love to teach you, you would realise that I am over-compensated now. I am a foolish old man, I suppose, a foolish, sentimental old man! Perhaps I do not understand the ways of this country. Here there is no what we callesprit de corps, no enthusiasm, no love of art for the sake of art, no love of beauty for the mere sake of beauty. All is exchange and barter; so much done, so much to be paid for. Music, bricks, painting, sculpture and sewing machines all in one item—all to be paid for. Here for me is fairyland! It may not be fairyland for others, but for me it is fairyland. When I walk up the steps of this house and ring the bell, I stand there impatiently till your Mr. Joles opens up for me heaven. When I tell you that Mr. Joles is for me an angel, the archangel that unlocks for me paradise, you will realise to what extent I separate this world of love, of joy, of happiness, the world over which you preside, from the outside world, where together come music and bricks and human misery. Here is my heaven, my haven of rest and sweet contentment. Shall I take money for it; shall I be paid for my happiness? Ah, Fräulein, Fräulein, I dream, I dream! For sixteen years I have not rested. Don't wake me, please don't wake me!"
Hélène tore the cheque into little pieces.
"To-morrow at three, Herr Von Barwig," she said. And when he had gone she burst into tears without in the least knowing why.